For M.
You will never read it, but this one is yours
I cannot believe you are real
H. awoke with a dry, flaky taste in his mouth and a vague sense of panic in his stomach. The late afternoon sunlight crawled over his face from where the blind did not quite reach the frame of the window like the glaring legs of an immense cosmic spider.
Fluttershy was already awake, as usual. She was smiling that otherworldly smile of hers, the kind that made one feel as though a tiny bird had lodged itself in one’s heart, precious wings tickling the various chambers as it made itself at home. The yellow pony’s silky, pink mane was tousled with sleep, and a few errant strands spilled gracefully across the sheet, connecting her chest to H.’s, a soft, rose bridge between two beating banks.
“Hey,” said H., returning Fluttershy’s smile. Smiles did not come naturally to him. They felt tight and uncomfortable on his face, but he found it was easier around Fluttershy. Her optimism, her radiance was infectious, even though he did not share it.
“Hi,” Fluttershy whispered.
“How long have you been awake?” H. asked. “You really didn’t have to wait up for me, you know.”
“Not long,” Fluttershy replied, shuffling closer and burying her face in H.’s neck. “And I know.”
H. closed his eyes and breathed Fluttershy in. Her fragrance was… barely describable. And he was a writer. She smelled like flowers. Like life. Like souls. It was like somebody planted a heartbeat in winter snow, and come spring, it grew into pure light.
H. opened his eyes. “I missed you,” he murmured.
Fluttershy looked up at him, a little confused. “But I’ve been right here.”
“Not in my dreams,” H. said simply.
A few minutes passed, and then the human and pony rose, H. slowly pulling on his clothes, and Fluttershy sitting herself down at the small kitchen table in the next room. As soon as he was dressed, and his bladder was empty, H. checked that the front door to the apartment was locked. He did this twice a day, three times if he was feeling especially concerned, which was more often than he cared to admit, both to himself and to Fluttershy. For one thing, she was the primary reason behind it. There was no point in living if something happened to her.
Satisfied that the lock still held fast, H. made his way to the kitchen, where he turned on the coffee machine and retrieved two cereal boxes from the cupboard. He turned to Fluttershy, a box in each hand. “Sweet? Savoury?”
“Sweet,” Fluttershy replied. A pause. “Unless you’d prefer savoury?”
H. shook his head. “What you want is what I want.”
“Um… also,” Fluttershy began cautiously, “I don’t think I’ll have coffee today, i-if it’s all the same to you.”
H. frowned. “Uh… how come?”
“Well, I mean…” Fluttershy continued hesitantly, avoiding eye contact, “if we’re not, um… careful, we’ll run out soon.”
“Look,” said H., “either you have coffee or neither of us do.”
Fluttershy sighed resignedly. “All right.”
Listening to the abrasive whir of the coffee machine, H. wondered how long the electricity was going to last. That and the running water. He did not know a thing about the… mechanisms involved in the operativity of things such as those. H. was not an electrician. Or a plumber. He could barely cook, for Christ’s sake. He was a writer. Hell, not even that, lately, if he was being brutally honest.
Once the coffee was extracted, H. added milk, warmed it up in the microwave, then added sugar, sitting Fluttershy’s mug down on the table beside her to a soft “thank you” which made existence just about worth it. As H. prepared the two bowls of cereal, he frowned. Damn, they were getting pretty low on milk. If they were to continue drinking coffee for the next few days, they would need to start having toast for breakfast instead. Oh well.
Finally, H. joined Fluttershy at the table. They began to eat.
“I could’ve helped,” said Fluttershy.
H. looked up from his cereal, blinked. “Huh?”
“With making breakfast.”
“Sure,” H. replied. “Of course. But I enjoy doing this for you. It’s one of very few instances wherein I am able to derive a concrete sense of fulfillment.” He paused with a slight grin. “That and the other thing.”
Fluttershy blushed, hiding behind her mane. “Oh, stop it.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, warm and smooth and well-blended, H. gazed out of the window to his left. The view was at its worst this high up. You could see the sprawl of it, the extent of the damage. It was staggering. And God forbid you took a closer look, because it was the little things which made the bigger ones that much harder to forget. “They’re all dead out there, aren’t they?” H. murmured, probably to himself.
“Surely there’s somebody still out there,” Fluttershy responded, that ever-present flickering of hope. “We can’t possibly be the only ones left.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” H. muttered. “No, I find that positivity is best left to fiction and the stupid.” He looked at Fluttershy again, something which resembled a smile. “And you, of course. You’re actually good at this whole optimism thing.”
“Um… thank you?” said Fluttershy. “I’m not sure whether that was a compliment wrapped up inside an insult or an insult wrapped up inside a compliment.”
“The former,” H. replied, resuming his visual onslaught on the outside world. Well, what was left of it, anyway.
“So, are you going to finally start writing again today?” asked Fluttershy, hopeful.
“I kind of have to,” said H. reluctantly. “Every day I don’t write something down, the words seem to slip further and further away.”
“But…” Fluttershy said, “and this is only if you don’t mind my asking, but… w-why do you continue to write when you have no audience? I mean, what’s the point?”
H. sighed deeply, running a hand through his long, dark hair. “I know that no one will ever read my work. I’ve always known it. And not deep down or whatever. That knowledge has been with me my entire life, not lurking beneath the surface, but… part of it, I guess. Part of the membrane. Inherent. But despite that, I feel a distinct obligation to express my ideas on paper, to… make sense of my existential experience by means of literary manifestation, you know?” H. seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Plus, there’s always the fact that I’ve honestly never imagined myself doing anything different with my life. It’s biological, metaphysical. Writing is in my… in my blood. In my soul.”
“You’re going to have to go outside soon,” said Fluttershy quietly. “If you don’t find food, we’ll starve.”
The first thought in H.’s head when he awoke to Fluttershy’s breath against his bare chest was that if the pony was not careful, her sheer adorableness was going to cause him to spontaneously combust. The second thought was that he still had not written a single goddamn word. His laptop was literally gathering dust as he lay there like the useless sack of shit he was.
“You awake?” H. asked the top of Fluttershy’s head blearily. Why? He knew for a fact that she was.
“Uh huh,” said Fluttershy as she rose, pushing a lock of mane out of her large, blue-green eyes and peering down at him, twin pools of pale emerald starlight.
“How long?”
Fluttershy smiled sincerely but unconvincingly. “Not very.”
Suddenly, H. could not handle it a second longer. “UHHHHHHH,” he groaned, pushing his face into the heavenly fur of Fluttershy’s chest. “You’re too cute,” he complained. “I can’t cope!”
Fluttershy giggled, planting a kiss on H.’s head. “I wholeheartedly apologise.”
H. fell back onto the bed, making himself as limp as possible. “Okay, that’s it. You’ve done it now. Look at this shit. You’ve gone and paralysed me!”
Fluttershy raised an eyebrow. “How are you still speaking?”
“Well, it’s from the neck down, obviously,” responded H. with theatrical emphasis, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.
“Right, so, are you going to just lie here all day, then?” Fluttershy asked, delightedly lifting and releasing H.’s right arm, watching it flop and drop.
“You’re going to have to drag me,” H. imparted. “I’ve been led to believe that sustained physical contact is the only means by which my affliction can be treated.”
Fluttershy snickered, playfully prodding H.’s forehead with her hoof. “Anything else, while I’m at it?”
“Could try fucking me,” H. suggested. “That’s physical.”
Fluttershy rolled her eyes. “Okay, let’s go, mister,” she said, climbing over H. to get off the bed. Wrapping her forelegs around the flaccid man, she slid him into a sitting position on the carpet.
“Something’s happening,” said H. with mock incredulity.
Up went Fluttershy’s eyebrow again. “Oh?”
H. raised his head, looking up at the yellow pony, wide-eyed. “I can feel it in my spleen,” he whispered conspiratorially.
Once sensation had returned to H., he, as usual, went to the bathroom, and then checked that the lock on the front door had maintained structural integrity. Following this, he went into the kitchen and assisted Fluttershy in making toast. Damn, he had hoped to hide the milk shortage from her, but as always, she already knew.
“Listen,” said Fluttershy, upon seeing H. turning on the coffee machine, “about the coffee…”
“Oh, come on,” said H., exasperated. “Not this nonsense again.”
“No, this is serious,” Fluttershy insisted. “I really don’t…” She stopped when she saw H. calmly produce what appeared to be a third mug. “W-what are you doing?”
“It has occurred to me that I would like to have two coffees today,” H. said. “In fact, let’s both have a second cup,” he continued boldly as he reached for yet another mug.
“WHY ARE YOU BEING SO RECKLESS?!” screamed Fluttershy, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “WHY ARE YOU BEING LIKE THIS?!”
H. looked at Fluttershy, then hurled the mug across the room. It hit a wall, shattered noisily, then hit the floor, where it shattered further.
“MAYBE I JUST DON’T GIVE A FUCK ANYMORE!” H. shouted.
The two stood there for a time, motionless, Fluttershy staring at H., and H. staring at the dishwasher.
“Would you like to be a rock?” Fluttershy eventually asked.
H. blinked, frowned. “Huh?”
“Would you like to be a rock?” Fluttershy repeated patiently.
“…Why?”
“Because a rock just lies around all day and feels nothing,” said Fluttershy evenly.
H. crossed the room and sat down at the kitchen table. A moment passed, and then Fluttershy joined him.
“I just…” H. began, “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. About the world. About anything. And I don’t particularly want to either. What with all that’s happened to… outside.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Out there.” A shaky laugh. “What am I saying? World? What fucking world?”
“Okay,” said Fluttershy softly. “What else?”
“I’ve lost faith in my writing,” continued H. miserably. “It feels… gone. I’m not sure it’s coming back.”
“Why not talk to me about it?” Fluttershy suggested. “I don’t know all that much about writing, the technical aspects and whatnot, but maybe I can help in some other way?”
H. rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Can we do it tomorrow?”
“Absolutely not,” Fluttershy asserted. “If you’re not going to be writing today, then you are at the very least going to talk to me about writing. Fair?”
H. nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“Good,” said Fluttershy with a smile. “You see? That’s all it takes: one little step. Agreeing to be helped. So, what seems to be the problem, as far as your writing is concerned?”
“Problem?” H. laughed sarcastically. “Problems, more like. Fucking plural. Well, for starters, I feel generally inexperienced. Everything I read only ever seems to remind me of how much better other writers are. And of course, I know I’m still relatively new to the whole thing, but now that I’m aware that in order to improve, a long process is required, I don’t know if I can go through with it. I mean, the entirety of my life and career as a writer has been one long process, but I wasn’t exactly conscious of it at the time, you know?”
Fluttershy nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s always difficult to accept that you are only at the beginning of an extensive and demanding journey.”
“It isn’t just that,” said H. despairingly. “I feel like all of my characters are merely endless reflections of myself. I mean, obviously what a man writes is subject to his experience and knowledge, but it’s as if I can’t… I don’t know, see past myself, I suppose? There’s this divide, this… abyss, between me and everything and everyone.” H. glanced out of the window fearfully. The sun was already beginning to set, the vast, empty buildings casting deep, interlocking shadows, creation falling away into sightless nothing. Just a child lost in the dark. Again and again and again. “And more so now than... than ever before.”
“Hey,” Fluttershy murmured comfortingly, trying in vain to meet H.’s gaze. “It’s all right. Everybody, regardless of their… profession or position, experiences these kinds of doubts.” She paused. “But… what’s the real problem here? What is it that’s truly bothering you?”
At last, H. looked up. “I’m bad,” he said, nodding to himself. “I’m a bad person. I mean, we’re all ultimately bad people, but I’m, um… basically disgusting. I disgust myself, and if you saw me for what I really am, I would disgust you, too.”
“That’s not true at all! From what I’ve seen, you are most certainly not bad,” Fluttershy replied firmly. “You hear me? From what I’ve seen, you are good, okay? Ever since I met you, you’ve been loving and thoughtful and responsive. And that’s all that matters in the end. Seriously.”
H. offered Fluttershy a sad smile. He pointed first at his head, then at his heart. “But you haven’t been here. Or here.”
Fluttershy rose, making her way over to the other side of the table where H. sat, a vacant expression on his face, looking unhappy and disheveled. She gently pressed her forehead up against his. “Yes, I have,” she whispered, listening to H. breathe. “I have. I’m there right now.” She closed the space with her lips.
“Hey. Hey, wake up. It’s getting late.”
H. reluctantly opened his eyes. He felt tired. There was a kind of distant ache residing within him, but for some reason, he could not quite place where it was coming from. The day was already fading, a weakness, a weariness to the damp, grey light which invaded the bedroom.
“What time is it?” H. groaned. He squinted at the clock on his right. “Fucking hell.”
“I let you sleep for as long as I could,” said Fluttershy apologetically. She was standing by the bed, her eyes, her entire being radiating concern and apprehension. “But you’re waking later and later, each time more and more tired. I don’t know an awful lot about this sort of thing, but even I can tell that this isn’t healthy.”
Rolling over onto his side, H. clawed at his eyes, wincing. “I never said I wanted to be healthy.”
H. sensed more than saw Fluttershy’s grimace. “See, that would be funny if I believed you were joking.”
Sighing, H. looked up at her. In the pallor of late afternoon, she looked like someone’s dead bride. Ethereal. Ephemeral. A ghost of a dream of a ghost. “Do you remember the first time we kissed?” he asked.
Fluttershy gave him a look. “No, it was ages ago,” she replied, gently sarcastic.
“No, but do you remember it?” the man persisted.
Fluttershy sighed. “Yes, of course I do. You know I do. Why are you asking?”
“I wanted to say something,” said H. wistfully. “I was… trying to say something meaningful so that the words would still be on my lips when I kissed you. So they would… I don’t know, imbed themselves? Imprint. I wanted to taste those words on you the next time we kissed. And the next. And the next. But they just would not fucking come. I mean, I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. A man of words. And in that moment, that raw, expansive moment, I had no vocabulary whatsoever. How utterly messed up is that?”
Fluttershy smiled sadly, a hoof on H.’s cheek. “Words don’t provide meaning. They only articulate it.”
H. nodded. “Yeah.”
“Come on,” said Fluttershy. “Let’s get you dressed.”
With a tangible hesitancy, H. pulled on his clothes, went to the bathroom, checked the lock, and then set about making breakfast.
“Fuck,” H. suddenly said from where he stood at the kitchen bench.
“What is it?” Fluttershy asked, alarmed.
“We’re out of coffee,” H. replied, more surprised than anything else. “I didn’t even notice yesterday.”
“You didn’t?” said Fluttershy, sounding troubled.
H. turned, shook his head. “Nope. Shit, I guess I’m finally going outside tomorrow. Let’s hope I don’t get myself killed forgetting to look both ways,” he joked weakly.
“You should write,” said Fluttershy in a small voice. “Today. In case… I don’t know, something happens to you.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” H. responded with a confidence he did not feel.
At that moment, with a skin-shaking CRASH, something threw itself at the door. Fluttershy shrieked. In a single movement, H. plucked a knife out of the block, grabbed hold of the pony, and dove underneath the kitchen table. The crashing continued, now accompanied by a monstrous bellowing which made H.’s ears feel as though somebody was punching them with white noise knuckledusters.
After what felt like eternity and a half, the assault on the front door ended. Whatever it was that had attempted to gain entry had failed. The door and the lock had remarkably held. H. finally stopped holding his breath. At this point, feeling like breathing was something he was going to have to learn how to do again, H. looked over at Fluttershy, his left arm still wrapped protectively around her. Clutched in his right hand was the knife, shaking violently as it pointed in the general direction of the doorway. He slowly lowered his arm, allowing the blade to rest on the wooden floor.
H. exhaled unsteadily, ran a trembling hand through his hair. “You okay?” he asked Fluttershy once he was certain of his ability to speak.
Fluttershy nodded into his chest. “Y-yes.”
“Jesus fucking… Well, that happened,” said H., a little lightheaded.
“Hey,” came Fluttershy’s voice.
“Yeah?”
The pony gazed up at the human with huge, mournful eyes. “What we have here is... coming to an end.”
H. planted a kiss on Fluttershy’s forehead. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you, I swear.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Fluttershy answered, her voice contaminated by regret. “You’ve closed the door, but you can’t pretend what’s behind it isn’t there.”
H. studied Fluttershy. She looked smaller from where he held her, like she was an extra limb, folding in on itself. He realised he had somehow forgotten how fragile she was, how easily she could just... break, as simple as the switching off of a light.
“I have closed the door,” H. whispered, as comfortingly as he knew how. “But I will never, ever pretend.”
The crashing had returned. It reverberated inside H.’s skull like the bell of an industrial metal monastery. He sat up, wishing it would just go away and leave him in peace. Looking to his left, H. registered the fact that Fluttershy was not there beside him. For some reason or other, this did not not make sense to him.
H. rose, feeling weary and sluggish, and made his way over to the door. As he got closer, the pandemonium became more and more subdued, almost manageable, really, and after a moment’s consideration, H. opened it up.
“You utter fucking moron,” said the young man standing there, looking really quite angry. “Well, it’s good to see you haven’t just outright killed yourself. What the hell have you been doing?! Our boss has literally been up my arse all week because of you. I hope you realise the sheer amount of shit I’ve had to wade through like some fucking Amazonian explorer on your behalf! That was a serious question, by the way: what’ve you been doing all this time?!”
H. blinked numbly. “I’ve been… thinking about becoming a rock.”
